FILMHISTORIA Online Vol. 30, núm. 2 (2020) · ISSN: 2014-668X Restoration “Four American Films, Reincarnated” ROBERT J. CARDULLO University of Michigan Abstract In recent decades, some older films have been reconstituted in what was, or ought to have been, their original form. This essay discusses four such restorations—American ones—made over a ten-year period (1993-2002): Elia Kazan’s A Streetcar Named Desire, Orson Welles’s Touch of Evil, Oliver Stone’s Natural Born Killers, and Peter Fonda’s The Hired Hand. Keywords: film restoration & preservation, American cinema, A Streetcar Named Desire, Touch of Evil, Natural Born Killers, The Hired Hand, Elia Kazan, Orson Welles, Oliver Stone, Peter Fonda. Resumen En las últimas décadas, algunas películas más antiguas se han reconstituido en lo que era, o debería haber sido, su forma original. Este ensayo analiza cuatro restauraciones de este tipo, estadounidenses, realizadas durante un período de diez años (1993-2002): Un tranvía llamado deseo de Elia Kazan, Touch of Evil de Orson Welles, Natural Born Killers de Oliver Stone y The Hired Hand de Peter Fonda. Palabras clave: restauración y conservación de películas, cine americano, Un tranvía llamado deseo, Sed del mal, Asesinos natos, Hombres sin frontera; Elia Kazan; Orson Welles, Oliver Stone, Peter Fonda. America, America In recent decades, some older films have been reconstituted in what was, or ought to have been, their original form. I’d like now to discuss four such restorations— American ones—made over a ten-year period (1993-2002). With the exception of the last entry here, all these films, and their directors, are well noted—the very kind of work, or artist, that attracts the money needed for preservation. I always worry about the future of any perishable art, especially cinema, but I worry more about film’s lesser known but otherwise worthy items. Aesthetically neglected and financially unmoored, these aged works sometimes seem to vanish down black holes. 49 FILMHISTORIA Online Vol. 30, núm. 2 (2020) · ISSN: 2014-668X A Streetcar Named Desire In 1993, Warner Brothers re-released A Streetcar Named Desire, restoring some footage that had been omitted in 1951 because of pressure from the censors. I hadn’t seen it on videotape or otherwise since the original film’s release, so I hastened. I think I spotted the new footage, but much more to the point, I had—thanks yet again to Thomas A. Edison and his fellow inventors—an adventure in time, a chance to bring a piece of 1951 to the 1990s. Streetcar looked better, the same, and a bit worse. The same holds true today, in the DVD version I watched prior to writing this review. Tremendous, prime, even better than I remembered, is Marlon Brando’s performance as Stanley Kowalski. The role is altered slightly from the original play; still, this is his performance. I was too young to have seen it in the theatre, in 1947, but, after the film first appeared in 1951, I rushed—as soon as I was old enough—to make sure that Brando’s work (about which, even as a boy, I had heard so much) was there. It was; it is. This wasn’t Brando’s first screen appearance; he had been in The Men (1950) as a disabled war veteran but hadn’t had sufficient chance to show his powers. It was Streetcar that stamped Brando on the world’s mind indelibly. The screenplay, by Tennessee Williams himself, gives Brando a different “entrance” from the play. The play begins with Stanley coming in and tossing a package of meat to his wife. By the time the movie was made, Brando had become Brando, and his entrance was delayed. The film opens with Blanche arriving in New Orleans, then finding her sister, Stella, with her husband, Stanley, in a bowling alley near their apartment. Blanche and Stella greet each other while Stanley roughhouses with some men in the distance. We are thus teased for a moment before the bomb explodes. Sculptural yet lithe, Brando irrupts into the film like history taking its revenge. His voice itself is part of that revenge: instead of the round, resonant voice we expect in good actors, this man’s voice corkscrews in, incises sideways, then turns into full-bladed flashes of steel. It’s a new voice for a new kind of acting. American films, global films, had had plenty of working-class heroes; but here is a man (like Jean Gabin in France) who brings anger with him, anger and his genitals. He is furious at the world that has subordinated him. He arrives to change things and to establish a line of change—the hot-tempered, “gaudy seed-bearer” (Williams’ phrase [25]) whose life can be defined as what he does when he isn’t having sex. A basic image of the play is of a wave of latter-day immigration (in this case Polish, though the original Stanley, in one of Williams’ drafts, was Italian) rolling right over domestic, Anglo-French gentility; here is that raw new power, through Brando, rolling tidally. Vivien Leigh’s performance as Blanche Dubois doesn’t have equal conviction. Leigh had played the role previously on the London stage, directed by her husband, Laurence Olivier, and she brings to the screen a real knowledge of Blanche and of the means to realise the part. But—perhaps because she played Blanche first for a director quite different from the director of the film, Elia Kazan—she never seems absolutely at ease. She is always working at the part, with great skill and of course with affecting beauty, but she is never tragic: she is always reaching for the pathetic. What’s missing is the blank, frenzied evisceration, the cloak of true-false poetry that (as I have been told by many who were present) Jessica Tandy had in the original New York production. When Leigh leaves at the end, it’s a pathetically deranged woman being taken to a hospital. With Tandy, it was the netting of a butterfly-tarantula, a victim who assisted in her own victimisation. Kim Hunter, who played Stella in the Broadway cast, is Stella again on film. Never a compelling actress, Hunter responds keenly to Kazan here, particularly—I think 50 FILMHISTORIA Online Vol. 30, núm. 2 (2020) · ISSN: 2014-668X this is restored footage—when she descends to Stanley in the courtyard below. They have fought; she has fled to friends upstairs. Now, part infant and part stud, he bawls for her in the courtyard below; and Hunter, her breasts and loins warm, comes down the stairs to meet him. The other secondary role is played by Karl Malden: he is Mitch, Blanche’s reticent suitor, as he was on Broadway. Often through his career Malden has seemed to use his homeliness in the way some actors use their good looks; but here he doesn’t make an issue of it: he just plays directly. Kazan, who did that first theatre production of Streetcar and had done six pictures before this one, is a part of theatre-film history in two senses: he made his mark with a signature style, and that style now has a slight whiff of mothballs. The Actors’ Studio approach—the version of Stanislavsky called The Method—seems so consciously honest, so determinedly anti-traditional, that from the perspective of 1993, let alone 2019, it becomes just another tradition. In film directing, that style can transmute into heaviness. All through the first sequences in the Kowalski apartment, for example, the lighting is almost a parody of 1920s German expressionism, with street signs flickering on the faces of people within. Throughout, in that small apartment, Kazan concentrates on actors’ movement, rather than on camera movement. Possibly he believes this to be more “honest”, or possibly he wants to re-create theatre on film. But often the movie looks as if it’s being performed in a submarine. And the director uses off-screen, symbolic sounds blatantly (a blatancy that works in the theatre), especially those of the Mexican vendor selling “flores para los muertos”. The most upsetting element in the film, however, is the screenplay. Streetcar, as time has shown, is a masterwork, one of the few great plays written on this side of the Atlantic; and the author of that masterwork, under censorship pressure, was willing to tamper with it significantly to get it produced. This isn’t without precedent. (Henrik Ibsen gave A Doll House 1879 a happy ending for a German theatrical production; Eugene O’Neill altered Desire Under the Elms 1924 in the hope of a Hollywood sale.) Still, precedent doesn’t really help. The result is that a few scenes are so condensed that they almost sound like synopses, but those aren’t the worst matters. Williams made two huge, injurious changes to the script. First, Blanche’s long speech to Mitch—in which she reveals how she discovered her husband’s homosexuality and caused his suicide—is made nonsense. Blanche says that she discovered that her husband was “weak”. Not only is the sanitised speech silly, it destroys the complex of sexual relations that leads from the suicide to her promiscuities and on to Stanley, a figure exactly the opposite of her husband. Second, the ending is changed. Stella punishes Stanley for his rape of Blanche by leaving him. In the play Stella tells a friend that, if she believed Blanche’s account of the rape, she couldn’t go on living with Stanley. Clearly, for her own reasons, Stella has convinced herself that Blanche’s story is the fantasy of an unbalanced woman.